Ironheart
by kimsvy
Summary: In my mind, these three things came together: the great Dragon with his lust, his keen hearing and his scent; the proud Dwarven Prince with his old burning grudge; and the fiery young woman, with her wagging tongue and iron heart, sick in her soul for a sight of the wide world. Yes, these things, I knew, were bound together by fate. These things, I knew, were bound to fall apart.
1. Chapter 1

**"She has been feeling it for awhile now—that sense of awakening. There is a gentle rage simmering inside her, and it is getting stronger by the day. She will hold it close to her—she will nurture it and let it grow. She won't let anyone take it away from her. It is her rocket fuel and finally, she is going places. She can feel it down to her very core—this is her time. She will not only climb mountains—she will move them too."**

Lang Leav / Her Time

 **"She licks blood off her fingers, and she looks like divine absolution. Careful, Meleager; this is your sport but she is not playing a game.**

 **Do not think you are safe because you love her.**

 **Do not think she will not stain her mouth red with your blood too."**

M.C. / Atalanta

* * *

The village was still quiet when she awoke, the world soft and reticent, perched on the edge of the promise of dawn.

At first, she almost hesitated to rise, her fingers curling reluctantly around the thin grey sheets that covered her body. But staying, she reminded herself, would make her departure no easier. Better to be gone without broaching the painful prospect of goodbye. They would understand. They always do.

Motion filled the small room the young woman inhabited as she fluttered to and fro, gathering up belongings, brushing away crumbs. The bed was made, the curtains drawn back, and the sturdy table cleared. Her hands went to her boots, nimbly rethreading and lacing leather through well-worn eyelets.

Gathering her pack up in her arms, she shrugged it up over her shoulders and left her antechamber for a larger room in the house. A sigh of relief left her lips as she realized that there was, in fact, no one up already to anticipate her departure.

Her feet hit the ground outside of the building, and dawn's rose red fingers appeared to stretch over the horizon. Within minutes she was at the stables, mounting her horse and looking forlornly over the small settlement—the land she had always called home. In a few hours, she knew, the village would be filled with a gentle buzz of activity. Women and children would mill about, readying themselves for the day. From their homes the men would emerge, their hands calloused from hard work and their skin darkened under the scrutiny of the sun. Her sister would move to her place near the markets, working her apprenticeship as a young healer.

A small smile graced the woman's face, and with a loud whoop she was off, her back to her home and her eyes on the expansive earth that lay before her.

* * *

Many miles away, a very confused and very conflicted grey wizard was sitting and smoking his pipe. His eyes were bright as he observed his host, a very proud and very prestigious dwarf who was known to his people as the son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and King under the Mountain. Gandalf, however, simply called him Thorin.

While the wizard sat, his companion stood, and both were in the engaged in a potentially pernicious conversation.

"-my people," Thorin was saying, "the mountain belongs to my people. And as their leader—their king—it is only right that I should be the one to lead them back to it."

"Indeed it would seem so," Gandalf half-murmured, his tone thoughtful. "Tell me Thorin, have you yet pursued this legacy? Has anyone tried to go back to the mountain?"

The dwarf shook his head. "No. They all greatly fear the dragon."

"Do _you_?"

He hesitated, clasping his hands behind him and taking a breath. "I am no fool, Gandalf, I know what that beast is capable of."

"Capable or not, some say that Smaug is dead—for sixty years he has not made himself known. They claim that the treasure likely remains in the mountain unclaimed."

"Then they are fools, all of them. You know as well as I; the dragon sits and he waits. No amount of time or depth of greed will draw him forth from his horde."

Gandalf blew a careful smoke ring, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. Thorin was right, of course. The great wyrm would bide his time until someone—or, as the wizard feared, _something_ —would come to disturb him.

A pause and the mage opened his mouth to speak, "Have you spoken with Dain yet?"

"I am in the midst of asking him for aid."

"And?"

"He remains noncommittal…" Thorin conceded. "I fear he intends to drag it out until it is no longer an issue." He hesitated. "My cousin is an honest dwarf at heart, but he wants the mountain and it's bounty as much as the next dwarf. I do not think he is willing to risk his soldiers or his pride to see me become king."

Gandalf stood abruptly. "Then it is settled."

"Settled?"

"We will not have an army, but a small company," said Gandalf, "I always believed in my heart that such would be the case, but now I am certain. Gather your men, Thorin. Gather all who are most loyal to you, and bring them in two weeks to the Prancing Pony in Bree."

"Have we not already said that such a quest would be foolish?"

"I am afraid, dear Thorin, that we have no choice," Gandalf admitted, sighing. "You are a strong and brave dwarf, I have no doubt in your capabilities. Now, good day to you Thorin."

And with that he was on his feet, staff in hand as he made his way from the room. The wizard was surprised when he found he was not followed by his dwarven friend (dwarves, after all, took great pride in their chivalrous natures, normally taking any opportunity to escort or entertain). All the same, as Gandalf made his way down the brilliant hallways of Ered Luin, he could not stop thinking about Thorin or the dwarves of Erebor.

As Thorin spoke, it had become very clear that his heart was hot and heavy with burden, brooding over his wrongs, the wrongs of his people, and the loss of the treasure of his forefathers. The stories he had told of the dwarves great resilience were all at once inspiring and disheartening to the wizard; he hurt for the hearts of Durin's folk, and yet he could not help but feel a spark of hope. Perhaps killing Smaug would not be as impossible as it seemed…

* * *

The days passed in earnest, and she bided her time in the plains on the western side of the misty mountains. The orcs, it would seem, were becoming more and more restless. They now dared to come down from the mountains, creeping closer and closer to Rivendell's borders. However, it was not because of this that she found herself gravitating towards the great Elven city.

A gentle elf they'd found lying on the edge of the wood, sporting a pained expression and a gaping wound in her side. Her horse already lay dead many yards away, much of its flesh torn away by the savage hands of what they knew had been goblins.

Leaving the two other rangers she'd travelled with behind, she entered Rivendell, her voice carrying loud and clear through the city as she called for aid. The injured elf was lifted carefully from the ranger's side on her horse and whisked away into the healer's halls. The young human left her horse to the stables and marched through the gardens towards the heart of Rivendell, intending to inform one of Elrond's advisors of the incident. Instead, she was greeted by Lord Elrond himself, just having come from one of his great Convenings.

A she elf and a wizened white wizard stood at his side, the three of them talking congenially as they made their way off of an elegant dais and onto one of the many paths through Rivendell's gardens. They paused in their meandering (and she certainly did too) when they stumbled upon the young Dúnedain, her expression clear but her eyes somewhat troubled as she inclined her head carefully to the party.

"My Lord Elrond."

He returned the gesture. "My lady."

"I apologize for interrupting your procession—I'd meant to tell one of your advisors but I couldn't find any of them before I-," she cleared her throat. "A young elf was found injured near the Great East Road on the outskirts of the Forest of Rivendell. I brought her as soon as I could to your healers, but I fear for her sake and for the sake of others."

"You believe this to be the work of orcs?" Elrond echoed, almost incredulously. Lady Galadriel, the beautiful she-elf among their company, gave their wizard companion a significant look.

With a brief nod, the young woman reached to a small pouch at her hip and produced what would appear to be a small ear. Elrond blinked, then blinked again, and realized that no, it was, in fact, a shriveled, distinctly orcish ear.

"It would seem as though our she-elf did not go down without a fight," the ranger said, her lips quirked into a slight grin.

Elrond was too preoccupied with the dismemberment to register her words, and he carefully plucked the mottled ear from her outstretched palm, turning it over in his hand.

"The orcs have grown bold," he stated, his features darkening. "Coming down from the mountain, plaguing our borders."

"A great darkness rises in the east," said Lady Galadriel. "Did Gandalf not warn us?"

"Gandalf knows not of what he speaks," the white wizard retorted. "I will not allow our actions to be based off of the foolish mutterings of an old wizard."

"Perhaps you should," Elrond said as he returned the ear to the young woman's hand with a slight grimace. She imperceptibly scoffed as he wiped his hand gingerly on his coats. Elves.

The wizard bristled at the Elf Lord's words. "And support his foolish notion to reclaim that mountain and vanquish the dragon? I thought you were above such folly."

"And I believed a wizard to be above speaking to his host in such a way," the young woman interjected, her eyes challenging.

Saruman opened his mouth to reply, but Elrond shot a warning look in his direction before he returned his gaze to the human in front of them. "You are dismissed, Lady Kimsy," he said, but it was not hard to detect the smile playing across his lips.

Once more she inclined her head respectfully and then took her leave, Saruman's eyes following her as she went.

* * *

The white wizard lingered in Rivendell.

When asked the reasons for his extended duration there, he would merely reply that he had unfinished business and give whoever had inquired a cryptic stare. Elrond himself remained ignorant of what, exactly, the wizard's unfinished business was, though he did not press. Curunír was welcome to come and go as he pleased in the Elf Lord's halls.

Saruman himself did not exactly know what kept him there, and perhaps, he thought, it was nothing more than mere superstition.

Still…

His eyes were, almost always, inexplicably drawn back to the girl—the young ranger. Not an odd sight in the slightest; the Dúnedain, men and women, frequented the city of Rivendell. In fact there was nothing at all particularly remarkable about her.

And yet he could not stop his gaze from creeping back.

On the third day of his extended stay, Saruman made the mistake of broaching the topic with Elrond while they lunched together. It was hard to miss the look of bewilderment he gave the wizard upon asking who, exactly, the young woman was.

"The human woman who had little tact?" Elrond echoed, chuckling around the words as he said them.

Saruman nodded, nod seeing the humor in his statement. "Well yes, that's what I said wasn't it?"

"Lady Kimsy is both a woman of great character and tact," Elrond said. "I do not know her personally, but from the interaction I have shared I have easily been able to tell as much."

The wizard steepled his fingers, his eyes intently focused on the young woman across the room. She sat with two rangers and a group of elves, seemingly at ease as she laughed at a comment one of the elf maidens had made.

"And when does she leave?"

"I am afraid I don't know," Elrond replied. "Perceivably as soon as the elf she and her companions rescued recovers, which will be soon. In fact, I believe I already heard tell of preparations being made for their small party to leave on the morrow." There was a brief moment of silence, thick and sticky between them, and then, "Why, may I ask, are you so interested in this ranger? Surely she is of little importance?"

Saruman opened his mouth to respond, closed it, and opened it again. But before he could formulate a feasible response, the two members of the White Council were interrupted by a courier. A letter, small, stained, and utterly unimpressive was pressed in the wizard's ancient hands, and he excused himself.

With the reverence of a priest, Saruman peeled open the parchment and allowed his eyes to quickly scan the document. _A party of thirteen… set to leave within the week… with no permission from the council, my lord…_

And like that Saruman knew what he needed to do. Within the pages of the paper, he had found an answer to his prayers.

* * *

 **A/N: So I am REALLY excited to start rolling this story out, and I'm really hoping that you all will really enjoy it as much as I do. R &R, and let me know if you would like me to continue this story (obviously I will be, but trust me when I say that the moral support is a HUGE boost).**

 **And before you ask NO my name is NOT Kimsy/Kimsvy/Kimsey or any other variant. I have always loved the name and it's meaning, which is why I chose it as my user, and I have long been intending to use it as a name of a character in LOTR (which I wrote a shoddy fanfic of years ago, which has long been scrapped and buried deep down in the box of things that we will never speak of). But I am very happy to finally have a character to use this name on (sort of a self fulfilling prophecy), and I can't wait for you to get to know her too!**

 **A brief bit of clarification about this story, in case you are curious:**

 **A majority will be written from the third person POV (if not all), though I will be skipping to focus on character to character as opposed to an all-encompassing third person omniscient. If you don't know what I'm talking about then please ignore this writer's ramblings haha!**

 **This is _not_ a story of a girl falling into middle earth (even though I assure you I have no qualms with fanfics such as those, I just decided I didn't want to go with that).**

 **This is _not_ the story of a Mary-Sue. I assure you, our lovely Kimsy has _many_ flaws, and I've already been toying with the idea of using her as a bit of an antagonist in various portions of this book, which I think would actually be quite interesting.**

 **Yes, she will be joining the party of dwarves (plus our beloved hobbit Bilbo) on their way to Erebor, which you'll see within the next two chapters.**

 **And _yes_ , she will (at this point I'm about 80% sure on this one) have a relationship with Thorin (wonderful pains that they both are).**

 **I hope you all enjoy this story!**


	2. Chapter 2

**"Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."**

-Walter Scott

* * *

A brilliant, golden light filled the room in which the young woman lay, dancing across the smooth wooden floors and spilling every so carefully across her dappled down duvet. Warm rays of sunshine were broken apart through patterned glass, forming fair fragmented fractals that decorated the smooth stone archways spread like open arms to the presently empty adjoining chamber. Lazy minutes slipped by, and the sky continued to lighten, fading from its once deep azure to a gentle grey, and then finally to a cautious blue, the tawny light of dawn at once spilling almost coyly across our ranger's face.

She awoke with a yawn.

Unceremoniously, she stretched lithe arms above a messy head of hair. A smile lifted her lips as she once more leaned back and sprawled contentedly across the plush bed. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, tracing delicate patterns in the intricate wooden leaf. Above her, swirling branches and leaves curled in a delicate motif that left no doubt as to whom her room belonged.

Kimsy rose, moving first to draw back the curtains and fling open the doors of the veranda. The gentle sound of elven singing floated towards her, and with a sigh she leaned against one of the stone columns.

Elvish singing was not a thing to miss, certainly not in the early mornings of spring when the sun was slung still low across the waist of the sky and dew lay fresh as citrus on lively blades of green. In fact it was this very earth of which they sang, sprightly voices filling the blithe air of the valley.

 _Awake we say,_

 _The sky is blue!_

 _The sun is bright!_

 _The day is new!_

 _Why lie you there,_

 _Your heart subdued?_

 _Arise fair elf!_

 _Yes join our queue!_

 _Follow us down through the valley!_

 _O! tra-la-la, tra-la-lally!_

The song continued as a group of lighthearted elves made their way down a smooth cobble path that led to the washing brook. Kimsy could not help but linger as she watched them pass through, the small group joined by others, all of them carrying baskets balanced atop heads and perched against slim hips. Such beautiful creatures were elves, their song like laughter in the trees.

The young woman shook her head of the spell and moved across the room. Carefully, she lit a fire underneath a predrawn bath and waited, with no small amount of fidgeting, for the water to heat.

Sinking into the perfumed waters, she allowed herself to enjoy its ensconcing warmth. Rivendell would always be a welcome visit.

Her mind wandered aimlessly as she bathed, and she found herself thinking longingly of home. Many miles away Kimsy imagined her wee sister with her hands curled into fists and a pout across her beautiful face. Eirien always begrudged her and Halbarad for their short stays and extended absences, more numerous recently since she'd come of age.

Perhaps her sister and that strapping young blacksmith had finally gotten around to their courting. It was, after all, hard to miss the longing stares he'd fixed after Eirien in the marketplace. Nor could one ignore the delicate blush that had warmed her sister's cheeks.

No matter, Kimsy promised herself, she would be home soon, and she would be able to see to it that their hungry bellies would be filled. Work as of late was not hard to find, and between the meager spoils she and Halbarad returned with, there was a chance they could, in fact, afford to have their sister wed.

With that she rose from the water, drying quickly and redressing in recently laundered leathers. The dining hall was already a hub of activity when she arrived, cloak clasped with a star at the base of her throat. Her two companions approached her with a smile on their faces, and together they sat amongst the elves to eat a hearty breakfast. But, for reasons she did not yet know or understand, Kimsy found herself filled with an overwhelming feeling of foreboding.

* * *

Saruman padded carefully through the vast Elvish library, his thin, tapering fingers sweeping carefully over the spine of every book he passed. In truth, he had no reason to be there, but the yellowing tomes provided a strange sort of solace that he took comfort in. Indeed, worlds could rise and fall, but wisdom and knowledge could not be wiped away. Words held within them a certain power that could never by any creature, even the Valar themselves, be completely possessed.

His mind moved carefully over the contents of the letter he'd received only the afternoon before.

A storm was brewing—a great and terrible storm. Though he would not yet admit it, not to the council, it was clear to him already that the Necromancer had arisen once again and would soon declare himself. Sauron was preparing for war; that much was clear, but an attempt on Erebor would quickly divert his attention. Even if the dwarves didn't succeed in their quest (which, he thought, it was highly unlikely they would), Sauron's presence would be impossible to further avoid, and Gandalf would yet again be painted as a hero.

Saruman gritted his teeth and curled his cracked lips into a disfiguring scowl. No, that simply would not do.

It was too early and too risky, he determined, to align himself with the vile Necromancer. No, he would simply have to wait for Sauron to continue growing in power, and once the One Ring revealed itself he could claim it for his own. The White Council would understand his motives, of course. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and when he emerged victorious, rallying the forces of light to his side under the One Ring, then they would see _him_ as the hero he truly was. No longer would that old fool Gandalf be worshipped as the champion of the peoples of Middle Earth. Saruman would be their savior, and he would be the only one of his breed who truly accomplished the task he was created for. The Valar themselves would sing his praises.

But only if his plans worked. Only if Gandalf's seditious meddling could be contained.

Thirteen dwarves and a fourteenth member of the party—an as of yet anonymous burglar. Olórin had certainly fallen from grace.

Saruman pulled one of the tomes from the shelf he stood against, his fingernails clicking cautiously over a heavily lettered title. He hummed—a short pleasant note—to himself as he peeled the well-worn and well-stained pages apart, crackling like leaves under his appraising touch.

The words were written in a beautiful and scrawling script, detailing ancient Elven theorems regarding fate, consequence, and relativity. Chance had led the wizard there, but as he read over a swirling Sindarin passage, he found the last resolve he needed for his plan.

If every action had an equal and opposite reaction, he thought, then certainly by choosing his own member for Gandalf's little party, he would be able to balance out the forces the other wizard had so foolishly upset. Then he would bring a stop to this ridiculous quest, he would find the ring; he would be championed as their hero.

But little did Saruman know, instead of bringing balance, he was on his way to wretchedly tip the scales.

* * *

 **A/N: Wow, I'm actually kind of surprised. The chapters of this fic are turning out far shorter than I ever originally expected or anticipated. But no worries, this fic should be around 80k (a pretty gentle estimate) considering my typical writing style and much of what I have planned for this work. And I apologize if you find this chapter a wee bit boring, we writers have to write the fillers just as well as the rest so we can get to the really fun scenes ;) *cough* Thorin *cough***

 **I love toying with the behind the scenes things that we hardly see in the book itself (much of which is fleshed out in the movie). I think it brings an interesting perspective to the story, for sure.**

 **Expect to see Thorin within the next two chapters, with the meeting of our two great forces (meaning the two pigheaded potential protagonists Kimsy and the King under the mountain himself) occurring three or so chapters from now.**

 **Take it as a good sign that these chapters are short. It means that I am very, _very_ excited to work on this fic and give you new chapters!**

 **As always R &R, much love to you all!**


	3. Chapter 3

**"Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."**

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince / JK Rowling

* * *

When Kimsy arrived in the medical wing she was not quite sure what she was meant to be expecting. A sleeping beauty? An irritant traveler? Perhaps a grateful victim? But as she pushed open the doors to a small, bright room, the young ranger came face to face with a restless elfmaid.

The Eldar was fair, far fairer than even the elves she had encountered before, and for a brief moment, Kimsy found herself leaning against the doorframe to catch her breath.

"You must be my hero," the elfmaid said, almost suddenly, and Kimsy found herself marveling at a voice smooth and silken as a trickling brook. "Elrond told me a little about you, though I must admit, I was surprised to hear that an Adaneth was the one who rescued me."

Kimsy chuckled and slipped into the elvish tongue. "I was surprised myself when I discovered that an elf needed saving."

"Saving?" The elf echoed, the ghost of a smile gracing her elegant features, "No, what I needed was simply a bit of assistance. And I thank you for that, fair Ranger."

"Please, it was nothing."

The elfmaid's lips pressed together in something of a reserved smile. "Perhaps it was nothing to you, but without the aid of you and your companions, it is likely that I would not have been found. Not in time to survive, at least."

Kimsy waved her words away and sank into an armchair adjacent to the bed. "I appreciate the sentiment, but enough of the niceties; let us spend our time discussing meaningful things."

"Indeed? And what would a Dúnedain deign to find important?"

"Your name, for starters," Kimsy said with a laugh. "What am I to call you?"

"I am Celinithil of the Woodland Realm-"

"You hail from Mirkwood?"

The elfmaid hesitated. "That is not what we elves prefer to call it, but yes, Greenwood the Great is my home."

"And why—if you don't mind my asking—are you in Rivendell?"

"King Thranduil sent us to discuss a discrepancy regarding trade."

Kimsy leaned forward, perching her elbows precariously atop her knees as she observed this Celinithil. She was all white blonde hair and pretty blue eyes, smoothly sloping cheekbones and a regal chin. Something about the way she carried herself struck a chord within Kimsy, and the young ranger found herself almost certain that this she-elf was not revealing the entire truth.

"Your king would send a contingent of elves beyond his borders to discuss something as simple as trade?"

Celinithil's lips curved up into a decadent smile. "Firiath—you curious humans. I admire that, you know, that inquisitive quality. Gives you an edge that even we elves don't—"

"Eloquent though your speech may be," Kimsy interjected, her expression revealing the pleasure such banter brought her, "I am afraid you have yet to answer my question. In fact, I have another. Why would a noble elf be sent to discuss trade? Surely nobility wouldn't be asked to travel beyond their borders for such trivial matters? Unless, of course, there was something more to this than simple trade."

Celinithil was silent for a long moment, her head tilted slightly to one side as she observed the woman in front of her. But before she could say anything, the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted them.

Both inhabitants of the room turned their heads, their eyes falling on a dark haired elf.

"My Lady Kimsy, Master Saruman has sent for you."

She frowned slightly. "Saruman? The wizard? What need has he of me?"

"I am afraid I do not know," the elf said with a shake of his head, "but according to the Master, is a matter of utmost importance."

Kimsy's frown deepened as she was led from the room, calling a rushed goodbye over her shoulder at Celinithil, who laughed and promised to provide the answers the ranger sought at a later time. But it was not answers about the wood-elves that Kimsy found herself desiring. Instead, she wished to know of Saruman and what, exactly, the white wizard wanted to do with her.

* * *

Saruman observed the young woman from a distance, taking in the gentle curve of her figure, the glint of sunlight on well-weathered leather boots. Though the elf he'd sent after her was meant to lead her to him, the young woman appeared to have taken charge and moved forward with a determined sort of urgency. Only once did she pause slightly to turn and ask her companion a question.

Closer and closer they grew to the stone dais Saruman stood upon until finally, he was face to face with the woman, her features quite close as she met his gaze. With a wave of his hand, the wizard dismissed the elf who he'd sent for her.

Alone.

They were deliciously, decidedly alone.

Saruman motioned for her to sit, an offer which she refused, folding her arms and leaning casually against a pillar as she watched him. The wizard, unappreciative of the position of feigned power she assumed, offered that they instead promenade through the gardens. Again she refused.

"Why did you send for me?"

It was at this moment that Saruman became keenly aware that this woman was not one given to small talk or trust.

"So you don't know why you are here?" He asked, and he could tell she had to make an attempt to refrain from scoffing.

"Clearly I don't," she retorted. "Otherwise I wouldn't have asked after your intentions in the first place."

Saruman's mouth curled into a scowl, taken aback by her disrespect. "You speak with little tact for someone of seemingly respectable status."

She leveled her gaze at him. "Forgive me, Master Saruman. I have little room in my heart for queer, entitled folk who go about treating others as if they were beneath them. Of course," she paused, a deceptive smile gracing her features and curving her lips, "you are none of those things. To even imply as much would be a gross misconduct."

He could not help but feel as though she was, in fact, implying as much, but he let it go and changed the subject.

"Yes, well…" he moved to the table in the center of the stone dais, his fingers trailing over rock as he gathered his thoughts.

"We were discussing why you called for me," she prompted.

Saruman leaned over the table and met her gaze. "I heard rumor that you were looking for work, Lady Kimsy. And no, don't protest. You can't expect me to believe a young ranger lingered here so long to look after an injured elf."

She squared her shoulders. "Go on."

"I am… aware that the work of rangers is often underpaid and little noticed," Saruman began. "It is a noble life, of course—protecting the weak and the less fortunate of Middle Earth—but means little in the way of caring for a family back home. I have called you here, Lady Kimsy, to partake in an adventure."

"An adventure," she echoed and stepped forward, intrigued by his words. "What sort of an adventure?"

"The adventure of a lifetime, little ranger. Tell me, have you ever heard of Erebor?"

* * *

"Long ago," The wizard began, and Kimsy felt almost lost in his voice, "in a land east of Rivendell, east of the Misty Mountains, there lay one of the most powerful kingdoms in Middle Earth. It was built, you see, into the side of a mountain, and in that mountain there lay a great wealth the likes of which few had ever before seen, in precious gems hewed from rock, and in great seams of gold, running like rivers through stone."

Saruman leaned back on his heels, his hand running absentmindedly through his beard. "But that period of prosper, plenty, and peace could not last forever. The people of Erebor grew sick with greed and their love of gold. And where sickness thrives, bad things never fail to follow."

"What happened?" She asked, and as soon as the words tumbled from her mouth, she saw the wizard's eyes flash.

"A dragon. A fire drake from the north came down and laid waste to the people and the surrounding lands. Such wanton death was dealt that day, for Smaug—that was his name—cared nothing for men. Dragons, you see, are the tormented spirits of those lost to the lust of greed, and as such, they covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost to the wyrm, and there he remains, brooding over his gold and waiting."

Kimsy blinked, pulling herself from the lull of his voice and the trancelike tale, and suddenly it dawned upon her what this wizard intended to ask.

"Wait…" she said, her eyes wary, "what does this have to do with me? What does this have to do with your adventure?"

"There is a party of thirteen bound for Hobbiton, headed by a wizard by the name of Gandalf the Grey," Saruman said, ignoring her comment. "You are to find them and give this to the wizard." He produced a thick, cream-colored envelope with a stamp in brilliant yellow wax that sealed the front. Kimsy took it from his gnarled hands and examined it in her own.

"What is this?"

"That contains the terms of your addition to their party and your position as a burglar."

Kimsy bristled. "Burglar?" she exclaimed. "Who said I am a burglar?"

"Oh, my apologies. Would you prefer thief? Spy? Assassin? Guerilla? Mercenary?" Saruman scoffed as he glanced at her. "My dear, you are whatever you need to be when you have hungry mouths to fill. Do not pretend you are above such things."

"I am above being the pawn of wicked wizards," the young ranger shouted. "And I refuse to work for a man who will treat me with such haggard contempt! Go find yourself a burglar elsewhere, I am sure your slimy friends can help you find creatures even less savory than me."

She turned her back on him, and Saruman squeezed his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"You have been waiting," he called, "your whole life for an opportunity to _go_ , to _leave_. I know. I can sense it within you—the desire to live, the desire to prove yourself."

Kimsy halted, whether it was his words or his magic that stopped her she does not know, but nonetheless, she stopped then and there, her breath catching in her throat.

"How does it feel," Saruman continued, "to be a woman in the world of Men? To be looked down upon, judged and despised, ridiculed for your decision to pursue what they would have called their birthright? You, who are just as strong, just as brave, just as resilient.

"And how does it feel to watch your sister starve, your honor slip away, your brother sell his soul to save you?"

"What know you of my family?" Kimsy blurted, rounding on him.

"I know of the hunger you feel in your belly, the crack you feel in your heart. And I am telling you, young ranger, if you partake of this quest, never again will they want for anything. From that mountain, as a member of the company, you will receive well more than your weight in gold. Imagine how your name would go down in history! Imagine the stories to be sung in your honor: Kimsy, Daughter of the Dúnedain and the Great Dragonslayer." Saruman inhaled sharply. "You go on this quest, and you will be free, you will be honored, and you have more wealth than one man could know what to do with."

She gritted her teeth. "And if I don't?"

"If you don't then I will simply find another to take your place. And," he said, producing a small pouch in his palm, "you will not receive a bit of payment in advance."

He tossed the bag to her and with deft hands she caught it, pulling on a fraying string to reveal a number of silver coins. Her mouth fell open in surprise, glancing up at the wizard in stunned disbelief.

"You are serious?"

"I would have someone deliver this to your sister and brother if that be your wish," Saruman stated. "That is, of course, if you agree to go to Erebor."

For a long moment, she was silent, weighing the options in her head. Probable death via monstrous dragon, many long and weary months on the road, unsavory conditions, and many irritable companions, most of whom were likely men. But, it was still an adventure; it was a great escape. No longer would she have to answer to their pitiful excuse of a chieftain before the rightful heir came of age. No longer would she have to face her sister's hungry face—her brother's empty stare. No. Saruman was right, this _was_ the adventure of a lifetime—this was the opportunity she'd always been waiting for. The answer to her prayers had all but fallen into her lap.

"You were born for this, Kimsy. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that this would be your destiny."

She raised her eyes to Saruman, reaching a firm resolve.

"I'll do it."

* * *

 **A/N: Yay another chapter! As always R &R! Love you all! (And again, no, Kimsy is _not_ going to replace Bilbo or become their burglar)**


	4. Chapter 4

**"I chased my dreams until I caught them. I chased my thoughts until I stopped thinking. I chased my heart until I found you."**

iwrotethisforyouandonlyyou / Iain S. Thomoas

* * *

The path to Bree was made up of the _good_ kind of dirt—soft stuff, nice and supple, that gave just the right amount underfoot. Underneath a horse's heavy hooves it was somewhat porous, arguably springy, and, in most cases, damp. This dirt was everything and more, and she savored the sound her stallion made as his muscled legs pounded hard against the forest floor.

For a forest it was, the boughs of great deciduous trees stretching high overhead. Their backs twisted and arched, gnarled hands reaching upwards to block out the sun from all below, greedy as they were in their search for sunlight. Trees, Kimsy decided, were remarkably like people. Some were strong and independent, standing alone, aloft, and proud in an open field. Some were free spirits, carving their way into the side of a cliff, the top of a great mountain, the slope of a deserted beach. Others, still, settled among their loved ones, congregating in great groups and whispering between hushed leaves. But all trees would do whatever it took to reach what they needed—their beloved light. They would twist and curve and snap and curl and choke out any and all life if it meant they could save themselves. And all trees were waiting, searching—their roots aching to settle and twist with another's.

Kimsy shook her head. She was thinking too much. If people really were like trees, she thought, then the world would be a whole lot brighter.

Time dragged on, trailing an ancient hand across the expanse of the sky and pulling the sun down with it. A squirrel danced across Kimsy's path. Very distantly, she thought she heard the sound of running water.

She arrived in Bree late that night. Alarmingly late. So late, she realized, that the wise thing for her to do would've been to set up camp near the road and come in early the next morning. The only people still out on the streets were of the sort you could hardly call people, their morals and hearts so twisted that the only thing remaining was a shell in the shape of a person. One of them called out to her as she trotted by atop her horse. _Bit o' change, aye ranger?_ She gritted her teeth and pressed on, the jeers of several drunken scamps following in her wake.

At the stables she shook awake the stable boy who'd dozed off, tossing him a copper piece before he went to corral her horse into the stables. _My name's Barliman, by the way, Miss. My papa always told me it's real important to introduce yourself to strangers_. She'd chuckled at him and nodded, obliging her own name before she left to find the inn. Young Barliman offered to accompany her— _it's not safe for a woman to wander at this time of night, you know, Miss?—_ but she laughingly declined and left without another word.

On the main stretch of road, men (and the occasional woman) shambled along at a decrepit pace. Lanterns and torches lit this town of men, casting flickering amber light on all who passed at this unholy time of night. Distantly, if she craned her neck just so, Kimsy could hear the rustle and hoot of distant creatures in the wood.

Bree was not, as you may be inclined to believe, a beautiful or advanced settlement of Men. Not in the slightest. It is not elegant or scientifically inclined. The people of Bree, while they oft came in contact with creatures of every sort from foreign lands, rarely ever cared for the knowledge of others or bothered to expand their own. But, in spite of their reticence and general mistrust of strangers, Breemen were a good folk who preferred to keep to themselves.

At night, Bree was transfigured into an entirely different being. Laughter died, all speech quieted, liveliness fled, replaced by an eerie silence. It could've been peaceful, but the unprecedented chill in the air and the unearthly aura of the forest surrounding suggested otherwise.

Finding lodging proved to be almost impossible. What little inns the city did possess were predominantly preoccupied. At one point, after being turned down by three consecutive hostels, Kimsy considered taking up temporary residence in one of the local's barns. However, her last experience involving several barn animals, a drunkard, and a bed of hay convinced her that she'd better not.

She finally came to a familiar, dilapidated building on the edge of town. A proud sign hanging out front read The Prancing Pony, in a faded shade of crimson across a peeling, yellowed background. It lay in the proudest corner of the city; the outside of the hostel sparsely decorated with inebriated tramps and shattered glass. Immediately upon approaching the building, the thick, overwhelming scent of crudely fermented mead hit her. Soon after, a strong wave of stale sweat and mold washed over her. She almost had to pause to catch her breath.

Several emaciated animals straggled about the grounds, their whines echoing the cries of their stomach. What little decorating the innkeepers had bothered to do did nothing to mask the obvious presence of men. A patch or two of forlorn foliage would never make a garden.

Of course, after viewing the exterior of the hostel, Kimsy's expectations were rather low for the interior of the building. But no matter how low my expectations were, nothing could prepare me for the incorrigible wreck that was the inside. Poorly cobbled floors with gaping holes bitten out of them, jagged bits of rock sticking up from the ground in their wake. Waxen walls, dripping resinous tears down their sides, the paper peeling down as if a great beast had slashed it. A ceiling, yellowed and grayed by years of rain, dipping in places under the weight of the sky above. Hallways missing chunks of plaster, and a roof leaking a steady stream of black water into a bucket below.

The building also had the delightful habit of creaking and groaning with every whisper of wind that brushed by, leading me to doubt the structural soundness of the inn. Honestly, I was afraid that if someone so much as sneezed wrong, the whole hostel would come tumbling down.

But the most alluring aspect of the whole experience had to be the mysterious, brown haze that filled the air. The beige hue swirled around overhead, a different altitude that could only add to the atmosphere of the inn.

She'd deduced that the sepia smog was caused by tobacco, having observed the characters that inhabited the building. Smoking seemed to be a favorite hobby of the man that worked the front desk, a pipe in one hand and a pencil in the other. It was like some strange game. What would he die of first? The dreaded Black Lung, or boredom? Not like anyone would survive long in this environment, though.

Part of her thought it a miracle that the inn hadn't been burned to the ground thus far, especially having been witness to the pungent scent of liquor that tainted the outside air. A larger, much more deviant part of her wished that the building had been reduced to nothing more than ashes. It was tempting to keep her money and sleep on the streets for the time she would remain in Bree; it wasn't like she'd never done it before. Still, it was always better not to risk the chance of being noticed, no matter how slim the chances may've been, and she'd rather not be harassed by any late night stragglers. Kimsey was a big girl. She could handle staying in a rundown inn just like she had handled staying in every other ratty place for her past three months on the road.

Her room fared no better than the rest of the building, and after an indifferent survey of the decrepit quarters she'd be staying in, she crossed the room to the only piece of furniture that decorated it. The moth-eaten mattress sank under her weight, practically touching the molded ground. She sighed and placed her satchel on the end of the bed. The room was hot and stuffy, probably due to the fact that the building clearly lacked any sort of working ventilation. Kimsey wiped a stream of sweat from her brow and pulled off her boots. Her cloak followed suit, as well as a pair of socks and a damp shirt. There was a distinct pause, in which she contemplated trying to form some sort of makeshift lock for the door, but she decided against it. She was too tired.

Kimsey's body had curled up against the lumpy mattress, and she was asleep before she knew it.


End file.
